


hope, lost and found again, by the forgotten lake

by b_ofdale



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard is human, Fairy Tale Elements, I don't even know what kind of AU this is, Light Angst, M/M, Thranduil is some sort of centaur, i guess, just a smidge, maximum good feelings (hopefully) delivered, maximum good feelings requested
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8761837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_ofdale/pseuds/b_ofdale
Summary: “Are you real?” Bard eventually asked, eyes wide. He held up his hand, and from the tip of his finger, poked at the centaur’s flank.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [northerntrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/gifts).



> This thing wasn't supposed to get this long.
> 
> I admit I freaked out a little when I saw I had to write something for you--but I was also very excited! I don't know much about mythology, nor fairytales except the disney ones, and I didn't want to risk writing something historical since it'd take lots of research and my time was limited... sooo I... made up this alternate world thingie and... tried... something...?? 
> 
> anyway, I just hope you'll enjoy it :D I wish it was more memorable but oh well... but I loved writing it, it was very refreshing since I tried to keep the tone light with minimal angst! Enjoy!  
> 

When Bard first saw the lake, he couldn’t believe his eyes; it was a small lake, granted, and he was young, but had there been a lake here before, he certainly would have noticed it; Bard liked the woods very much. 

He liked its high trees, its clearings, and its animals, but most of all he liked to get lost in them, though always, somehow, he found his way back home.

He had imagined many stories here, and he had been many heroes, protecting the forest from foes that didn’t exist anymore outside of people’s imagination.

Times were quiet, and so was the world.

But it didn’t mean the world held no more surprises; and here Bard stood before one of them.

There was nothing special about this lake, apart from, maybe, the feeling it gave Bard. A feeling of magic. And this, Bard didn’t quite know how he was able to put into words, for he had never felt it until now.

In consequence, Bard, without any of the hesitation he should have shown faced to something new (at least, according to his father), walked to the lake’s border, light on his feet and hands clasped behind his back. He looked curiously into the water, but didn’t see anything special inside it, either.

Father would have called him out on his lack of prudence.

Surely he had seen this place before, and simply forgotten about it.

Shrugging to himself, Bard sat by the water’s edge, and took his little bag off his shoulders. Bard placed it on his lap, and took out the small loaf of bread and slice of cheese he’d stolen from the kitchen before he’d sneaked out.

He was eating happily, glad to fill his empty stomach after an hour of wandering the woods, when he heard it—or thought he had.

It was the sound of a branch snapping, as though being stepped on, and so Bard ignored it.

Bard ignored it, until he heard footsteps, slow and measured, coming his way.

This time he froze, letting his hands, still holding the bread and cheese, fall over legs, and he felt his heart beat faster under the threat of being prey.

He had lived near the woods long enough to know getting up and running was the worst thing to do. Despite his sudden fear, Bard stayed put. Slowly, he turned around, to see what was coming towards him, and his eyes widened more than they had when he’d found the lake that shouldn’t exist.

It was a man like he had never seen before. It was more than a man, even; the body of an animal, and the torso, arms and head of a man.

He was very beautiful, Bard thought, with his long hair of silver and his fair face—though he did look serious, and Bard didn’t know if he liked that very much.

The man had blue eyes, looking straight at him.

And he didn’t move from where he stood, a few feet away from Bard. Bard saw a flash of confusion in his gaze, but it was gone as soon as Bard thought he’d seen it.

Though Bard couldn’t remember what such a creature was called, he knew they were of no danger to men, and so he relaxed, letting wonder take its place, and he found himself wishing the stranger would get closer.

There were many thoughts going through Bard’s mind, but none came out, and he didn’t move.

Bard expected the creature to turn away, and yet—he tilted his head to the side, frowning a little, and then—he took a step forward, and then another, slow and steady, until he reached Bard’s side, and lay there, just like that.

And so, with stars in his eyes, Bard looked up in amazement to the creature who had come and lay next to him.

His coat was light beige, spotted in places with lighter tones, and his legs were thin, his tail white and short. His hair looked soft, and it was so clear it seemed almost white. As for his eyes, Bard had never seen anything like them.

Anything like that man at all, even.

But Bard thought he remembered their name now: centaurs. He had heard more stories of them than he could count on his fingers.

At first, neither spoke. They stared at each other, Bard’s brows furrowed, and the centaur—for that’s what it was, Bard was sure of it—bearing nothing more than a blank expression, though it wasn’t cold.

“Are you real?” Bard eventually asked, eyes wide. He held up his hand, and from the tip of his finger, poked at the centaur’s flank.

It was like seeing snow melting at the contact of skin; his features softened, brightened by the faint smile that grazed the centaur’s lips, and Bard found he couldn’t not return it.

“You sure look real,” Bard added, tilting his head slightly to the side.

He then resumed eating his bread and cheese, trying to pretend the person next to him was just another, normal human being, just like he was.

It was just like a picnic, Bard told himself.

It didn’t stop him from glancing at the centaur every now and then, though.

He thought of many things to say, but he remembered his father’s words clearly: if you don’t have anything important to say, just don’t say anything at all.

But as he looked upon the lake, and as the quietness of the place grew on him, the memories faded, and he stood to face the centaur, and sat down in front of him, in the water. Strangely, it was warm.

The centaur raised an eyebrow at him, but there was a softness to his gaze that contrasted much with the hardness of his face.

“By the way, I’m Bard, nice to meet you!” Bard piped up, extending his hand to shake like he had seen adults do, but the centaur only stared at it, and then back at him. Bard bit the inside of his cheek. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

The centaur was undeterred, though Bard felt as though he was being inspected, from his skin to the deepest corners of his mind.

“I guess that’s good,” he said. “Mam always said I should not talk to strangers.” Bard propped his chin in his hand, and he looked thoughtful. “She never mentioned centaurs, though. I thought I’d never meet one.”

A silence, and Bard gasped.

He put his hands over his mouth. “Are we both here because I’m a hero? Are you going to teach me things?”

As he spoke these words the centaur’s features darkened, all softness gone, and Bard didn’t need to hear a refusal to know it was one.

“Oh, okay,” he said.

Bard looked down at his hands. He guessed his father was right after all. He would never live up to his grandfather’s name.

He didn’t leave the water, though. He just didn’t meet the centaur’s eyes again, and lost in his thoughts as he was, he didn’t notice the passing of time.

It was only when he saw the wrinkles on his fingers that he stood up and looked up to the sky; the sun would soon set, and he had to leave soon if he didn’t want to lose his way home.

“Uh, goodbye?” he said to the centaur, who glanced at him, but said nothing. “Nice meeting you, sir.”

Then Bard put his bag on his shoulders, gave a small wave of his hand as a goodbye in the centaur’s direction, and made to leave; it was about time he went home.

“Thranduil,” the centaur said, and his voice was deep, but it was also gentle in its own way, and Bard startled, for he hadn’t expected to hear it. “That is my name.”

Bard turned on his heels, and he beamed at Thranduil, who still lay by the water. It was a vision he would never forget; the centaur of the lake, with his hair and the white spots of his coat bright in the sunlight, with whom he’d shared something that he would later understand was something as important as a moment of peace.

Bard never forgot about Thranduil, but also thought he would never see him again; as soon as he had got home and told his father of what had happened to him, he hadn’t been believed.

There were no more centaurs, his father had said. And there was no such thing as a lake, in the middle of the forest he knew so well.

However, Bard did hear Thranduil’s name again; whenever he got the chance, he would ask people about centaurs and, eventually, he learned that the centaur he’d met by the magic lake wasn’t just any centaur.

Thranduil was a name many knew, for, according to many tales, he was a king amongst them, and the one who had taught many heroes, back when the world needed them.

It hadn’t mattered, though; people had been quick to remind him all centaurs were gone, and Thranduil with them.

And so, though Bard never forgot, he came to believe the adults might be right; perhaps he had, indeed, dreamed it all.

He knew they thought he was clearly lying, though.

Over the five years that passed, he thought less and less about the magic lake and the centaur, but then came a day when, once more, he sought refuge under the trees of the forest, and it was as though they were meant to meet again.

The first time, it’d been summer, but today the air was cold and Bard’s feet and ears were freezing before he’d gotten far enough into the forest.

He’d run out of the house in a hurry, not bothering to change shoes, pick a scarf, or find a warmer coat.

It wasn’t the first time in the last few years that Bard wanted to be away, but until now he’d always hidden at a friend’s place, and today his friend couldn’t welcome him.

But he missed getting lost into the forest, and that was exactly what he set off to do.

The relief that washed over him when he saw them was like no other. 

He’d been right. 

He hadn’t been dreaming.

Or at least, he couldn’t be dreaming again.

There was no snow on the ground, and the lake wasn’t frozen like it should have been with such weather. There was grass, and there were flowers, and there was Thranduil, too.

Thranduil hadn’t noticed his presence. There was something different about him; Bard was sure he would have remembered the scars that now marked his body, all over his side and up to his face. His gaze was fixed on his reflection, fingers braiding his hair in delicate, precise motions.

“Are you alright?” Bard said, and the centaur startled, his scars disappearing, before he lay a severe gaze on Bard—blue as ice his eyes were—which then turned into curiosity as Bard cocked his head to the side. “How did you do that?”

“I’m fine,” Thranduil said, and his voice made it sound as if he had nothing more to say on the matter.

“Uh-uh, alright, I believe you.” Bard tilted his head some more. “But how did you do that?”

The centaur seemed to hesitate to answer, but when he did, he didn’t use that voice adults always had when they thought Bard was too young to understand what they were saying.

“Old magic,” the centaur said. “Old magic that has left this world long ago, but in some places it remains—and in some beings as well, though not as strongly as it used to be.”

“Like you?”

Thranduil nodded, and then he asked, “Why did you run off from home?”

Bard shrugged. He threw a rock in the water.

“I—I just don’t get along very well with my dad,” he muttered. “Da was mean and Mam isn’t home, so I ran away,” he added, then looked up to Thranduil again. “And you?”

Thranduil turned to look at the surface of the lake.

“I’ve been here for many years,” he said. “I come, for as long as the gods will allow me, and I wait for peace—isn’t that why you’re here, too?”

Bard’s brows furrowed. Was he? He hadn’t thought about it, but perhaps Thranduil was right. It made sense, after all.

“You’re a good listener, for a child—you pay attention,” Thranduil said. “But you don’t speak much about yourself.”

Bard shrugged again. He didn’t feel like he had listened that much yet, but perhaps Thranduil thought that because he was lonely. “I have to listen to my dad all the time,” Bard explained. “But he doesn’t listen to me back.”

Thranduil didn’t reply to that, but when Bard looked up at him, he seemed thoughtful.

“What about you?” Bard asked, determined to change the subject. “If this lake is so special, why are you here?”

Bard first thought Thranduil would give him no answer, and, as silence stretched, he realised it would be alright, if he didn’t. It wasn’t any of his business, was it?

Yet Thranduil heaved out a small sigh, and his hand found a lock of his hair. He entangled it between his fingers.

“I long for the old days,” he said. “But the old days won’t come back, and I have to make peace with that.” He paused to glance Bard’s way. “I need to find a new purpose, but there is none that I can see.”

“Why didn’t you go with your people?” Bard said, brows furrowed. “Don’t you miss them?”

Thranduil shook his head. “It didn’t feel right. I had to stay.” He paused, before saying, “But yes. I do miss them.”

Bard rested his chin in one hand, and squinted at the lake. He was sad, about Thranduil being alone all the time. He wanted to help, but he didn’t know how.

“Maybe—uh, I have to go back later, but—” Bard glanced Thranduil’s way, and the centaur was merely looking at him. He seemed curious. “I can keep you company, if you want. Like last time!”

Thranduil cracked a faint smile; it wasn’t much, but Bard thought it suited Thranduil well.

“You should do that more often,” he said.

“I don’t mind,” Thranduil replied.

Bard frowned. “Me staying, or smiling?”

But Thranduil only shook his head, and stood. He was even taller than Bard had thought he’d be, and Bard felt tiny next to him.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Thranduil said, and he walked in the water until it reached his stomach when he lay down again.

Bard stood as well, took a step forward.

“Can I sit on your back?” he asked, almost sheepishly.

Thranduil glared at him, but, much to Bard’s surprise, eventually nodded.

Bard grinned and, without even taking off his clothes, got into the lukewarm water, and walked, then swam to Thranduil. He pushed himself up on Thranduil’s back, and settled there, content.

“Woah,” Bard exclaimed, “if you stood, it’d be like I’m on the top of a mountain!”

Thranduil glanced behind his shoulder.

“I am not that tall,” he said.

“Well, then I’m not that much of a good listener,” Bard retorted.

Bard thought he saw Thranduil smile again.

“Do you stay here all the time?” Bard asked then, and Thranduil nodded. “But—how do you not get bored?”

“There is much to do,” Thranduil replied. “I listen to the trees, and all living beings in the forest, under the ground and underwater, and in the sky above. I train my mind and body, think of old times, and of times to come, and I remember all that I used to teach so that it is never forgotten.”

“So you have students?” Bard piped up.

“No,” Thranduil said. “There are no more heroes to teach.”

Thranduil looked back ahead.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bard murmured. “Is that why you look a little sad?”

Thranduil didn’t answer, and Bard looked down to his hands.

He thought hard, putting his hands on his knees, and squinting. Then his head jerked up, and he said, “I’m no hero, I’m not anyone special, but you could teach me!”

Thranduil faced him again, and his eyes widened for a fraction of second when he saw Bard was being serious, before his face lost all expression.

“No,” he said. “Only heroes can be taught.”

“But—”

“No.”

Bard grimaced. “Alright,” he sighed. He just wanted to help, but if Thranduil didn’t want to teach him, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“Da says I should have been a hero,” Bard said. “Like my great-grandad, Lord Girion. Did you know him?”

Thranduil shook his head. “I have heard of Girion, but he didn’t learn from me.”

Somehow, Bard felt relieved about that.

Thranduil not adding more, and Bard finding nothing else to say, he slid off Thranduil’s back and swam close to the shore, where he sat. It was cold outside the clearing, and he would not be able to make it home if he wasn’t dry.

He drew upon the dirt with a stick, glancing at Thranduil from time to time as he did so. He seemed to be back in his thoughts, the tip of his fingers absently sliding upon the water’s surface.

Eventually Thranduil walked back to the shore, and he lay again beside Bard. He heaved out a small sigh, that Bard wouldn’t have noticed if his eyes hadn’t followed Thranduil.

Bard’s brows furrowed again. “Are you tired?” he asked.

“Magic does that.”

“Then you should stop it,” Bard said, shrugging.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Thranduil stared. “Because you’re a child.”

Bard shrugged once again. “I don’t mind.”

Thranduil’s eyes didn’t leave Bard’s, and Bard could see all of his confusion inside them. Somehow, he guessed that was something special; that Thranduil had seen much, and being confused wasn’t something he would often experience anymore.

Yet slowly, the scars reappeared again, and despite himself Bard couldn’t tear his eyes off them. But he didn’t flinch, didn’t wince, and upon seeing that Thranduil seemed to relax. Bard’s mam had been a healer, and early on he had watched her work. He had seen worse wounds before.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

For the first time Thranduil properly smiled, though still it was small. “Yes,” he said.

Bard grinned back. “Can I touch your coat?” he asked, and he saw how Thranduil retained a roll of his eyes, though he gave a short nod of his head.

Bard put his hand flat against Thranduil’s skin. “It’s soft!” he said. “I—I thought it’d feel like when I pet horses at the market.”

Thranduil shook his head, and this time he did roll his eyes, but the ghost of a smile hadn’t left his lips.

Bard talked no more afterwards, and Thranduil didn’t, either.

Finding nothing to talk about, Bard proceeded to play with the water; he counted the fish that bumped into his feet, tried to catch algae with his toes, and he laughed when a frog landed on his knee, which he took in his hands and showed to Thranduil.

Time went by quickly, and when the sky started to turn yellow, Bard stood. He sent a look to the forest, and took a deep breath. The walk back home would be long and cold. He’d better hurry.

“I have to go,” Bard sighed. “Will I see you again?”

It seemed Thranduil only noticed then that much time had passed, but as realisation crept into his eyes Bard was sure he saw a hint of disappointment, too.

“Perhaps,” Thranduil said. “If you need it. If the gods and the lake allow it.”

Bard nodded, slowly.

As it sounded like a goodbye, he made to leave, trying not to pay attention to how much he wished to stay, even if only for a little longer. This place felt more like home than where he was born ever would.

“Bard.” Bard looked back to Thranduil, and locked his eyes to Thranduil’s, feeling the centaur wanted his full attention. “You don’t have to be a hero, to be important.”

First, Bard stared at him, waiting for a ‘but’, waiting for something that would make Thranduil’s words worth less than they were.

Nothing came, and so Bard nodded again, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning too much.

He took one, two, three steps away, before turning on his heels. He then ran back to Thranduil and, without as much as warning, closed his arms around the centaur’s waist.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

And then, he walked away, fast on his feet and not looking behind. He didn’t want to see the look on Thranduil’s face, had he crossed a line.

But something told him he hadn’t.

Once home, Bard didn’t talk to anyone about the day he’d spent by the lake; he remembered well the last time, and didn’t want to go through the same experience. He wasn’t dreaming, and the lake and Thranduil were real, and he wouldn’t let anyone tell him otherwise.

Years passed once more, during which Bard kept what he now called his secret to himself, but also they seemed to go more quickly; when times were rough and his father reminded him he wasn’t the hero his ancestor had been, Bard thought of Thranduil’s words, and they made him stronger, in a way.

It hurt, of course. But at least he remembered it didn’t mean he wasn’t important. He could do great things, too, and perhaps great things weren’t always the ones the world wrote songs about.

The third time Bard found the lake was also the last in what would be a long time. He hadn’t been sad, or desperate, or in need to run away for a few hours, but he had wanted to breathe. To go deep in the forest again, to smell the trees and the fallen leaves.

He had no one to come home to anymore. He could stay for as long as he wished, for as long as he needed to clear his thoughts and try to understand what had happened to him.

He just wasn’t so sure he wanted to.

Bard had been walking for a while when he found it, and he cracked his first smile in days. It was as though nothing had changed; everything was the same, from the grass and flowers, to the plants growing from the lake’s floor. Even Thranduil, who this time was laying in the water, and it seemed he was talking to the creatures that were there, as if they could understand him.

Steadying himself, Bard greeted, “Good day!”

Thranduil’s head snapped up to him, and he thought he saw a corner of lips was slightly turned upwards. There was something sad to it, though; he could never find the lake on happy days.

Thranduil gestured to him to get closer, and so Bard did. He went to sit in front of the water, and in front of Thranduil. He heaved out a sigh as soon as his body hit the ground.

Neither of them spoke, but somehow it felt as though much was told, here as they discovered each other again, after so long.

“There’s something different about you,” Thranduil told him, later.

Bard laughed. “Is it the facial hair?”

Thranduil shook his head, ignoring Bard’s poor attempt at humor. But he didn’t force Bard to answer, and instead Bard looked at him; something was missing, and Bard found himself sad that it was.

“I remember them, you know,” Bard told him. “And I’m not a child anymore.”

With only a huff from Thranduil, the old scars reappeared upon Thranduil’s skin. Bard only glanced at them, before picking up a flat rock and throwing it over the surface of the lake. It skipped four times.

He wondered if he should tell Thranduil why he was there, this time. He didn’t feel like he couldn’t, and it was curious, how easy things were again, even after so much time had passed.

“My father died last week,” Bard eventually admitted. “I’m all alone now.”

It wasn’t like he’d never felt alone before. It wasn’t like he couldn’t deal on his own. But it was strange still, and Bard found it hard to put words on all that he was feeling since his father had passed.

He didn’t look at Thranduil, and so he couldn’t even guess the look on his face.

There was another silence, and then Bard asked, “Is it bad, that I don’t feel sad?”

“No,” Thranduil said. “He hurt you.”

“He never hit me.”

“That doesn’t mean he never hurt you.”

This made Bard look at Thranduil. He found nothing to say, and so he kept looking. There was no way to have any idea of what Thranduil was thinking in that moment, and somehow, that was alright—it had always been that way, and it was as though he was used to it already.

“Whatever,” Bard murmured, more to himself than Thranduil, skipping another rock over the surface of the lake.

“How old are you, now?” Thranduil asked then, and Bard blinked at the question.

“Eighteen,” he said, wondering why Thranduil cared to know such a thing. It wasn’t like he had ever asked before. “I’m not even sure I want to know _your_ age.”

“I’m three thousand years old,” Thranduil said, inspecting his fingers like it was nothing.

Bard was glad he hadn’t been drinking anything as Thranduil spoke the number. That was even older than he’d thought.

“Are you immortal or something?” he asked. Of course Bard knew Thranduil’s life was longer, but he’d read about centaurs dying of old age, and he wasn’t sure he quite understood how it all worked.

“Yes. But I haven’t always been,” Thranduil said, shifting his position slightly.

Bard frowned. “What does that even mean.”

“We only age when we find love, in its truest of forms,” Thranduil explained, “but it has to be returned, and shared.”

Bard put his chin over his knees. He thought he’d live forever if he was a centaur, then.

“So when you get a girlfriend? A boyfriend?” he wondered aloud.

Thranduil laughed. “Not necessarily—love takes many forms.”

Bard hummed, extending his hand to the water and letting his fingers graze the surface. He glanced Thranduil’s way, only to find him fixing something Bard couldn’t see.

There was something truly ethereal about Thranduil; Bard had noticed his beauty as a child, but it wasn’t something he had cared much about. Now that he was older, he realised that Thranduil surpassed many ideals of beauty—perhaps it was why he seemed out of this world.

“What have you been up to?” Bard asked.

Thranduil blinked before facing Bard, and to Bard’s surprise, he shrugged, saying nothing.

“Still waiting for a hero to teach, uh?” Bard mused. “I’m still—”

“I told you no before, Bard,” Thranduil said, his tone leaving no place for discussion.

It was Bard’s turn to shrug. He didn’t want to become a hero per say, he just wanted to help Thranduil; and if Thranduil still didn’t want his help, he couldn’t force it on him.

“Do you wanna talk about something, then?” Bard suggested instead.

Thranduil stared at him, as though he wasn’t sure what to think. Bard thought it must have been years since anyone had asked him to make small talk. They had talked when he was a kid, but things had been different; he had acted and spoken based on what he and Thranduil needed. Bard hadn’t completely realised what he was doing back then, but he remembered Thranduil had been of great support.

Perhaps he had been to Thranduil, too.

“Anything?” Thranduil asked.

Bard smiled. “Aye, anything.”

And so, they did. Bard found he loved how Thranduil had so much to say about things that, at first glance, didn’t seem important. 

Actually, he’d never thought Thranduil could talk that much. 

Yet he did, when he talked of the forest, and the stars above which, after a while, came to appear in the darkening sky. Never did he talk of his family, but he talked of his people, in the form of memories, to give deeper meaning to his words, and better answers to Bard’s questions.

And in return, Thranduil listened to Bard’s childhood stories, what he thought of the weather these days, and to the boy crush he’d had for months but had finally let go of, and the bird he’d found and nurtured back to health that wouldn’t leave the house.

Bard had never thought an adult would ever be so willing to share conversation with him, without ever looking down on him for his lack of experience. This, Bard appreciated greatly.

Bard didn’t quite get tired of Thranduil’s company, but the moon was high now, and it was time to leave.

“See, you taught me, in the end,” he said, and just as he saw realisation making its way in Thranduil’s eye, he turned away, and disappeared amongst the trees, not knowing he wouldn’t come back in many years.

During those years Bard met Mira, and that was how he learned about a new kind of love, and with her he spent the best moments of his life since his mother had died.

It was young love, which blossomed through adulthood without ever fading.

Together they had Sigrid, and Bain, and their love had been strong and bright. By the time they were thirty-one they had Tilda, and by giving life to her Mira lost her own. Bard thought things would never be the same after her death; and they wouldn’t, but he came to learn that different could also become good, someday.

The first years were hard, though, and there was only so much a man could handle on his own before falling to his knees. But Bard had his children, and always they lifted him up, and thanks to them he stood strong, though his mind was often greatly tired.

He told them of centaurs and times long gone as bedtime stories, and their eyes were full of wonder as they listened to the tales of all those people who had made their world one of peace. It wasn’t only about the centaurs and the heroes they had taught, but also about the people who had encouraged them, followed them, saved them when they couldn’t save themselves.

They told Bard he was their hero, and he told them they were his.

When Sigrid was old enough to look out for her brother and sister, Bard went back to work, and when she was old enough to tell him he should take some time for himself, he was practically pushed out the door with a smile and a laugh.

He was thirty-six when he found himself back at the border of the lake’s clearing again.

It was the first place his feet took him to, as though they’d been waiting for that day to come. He had forgotten how much he’d missed wandering in the forest. But it was something else, to do so without any worries weighing in his heart; his father was long gone, he’d gotten used to her absence long ago, and today his children risked nothing.

He’d still asked his neighbour to keep an eye on them, though he was certain he wouldn’t feel the need to the next time.

Perhaps the next time, he would take them with him.

Bard’s thoughts were quickly gone, for at the other end of the clearing, Thranduil had emerged from under the trees, and lay where he used to, by the water’s edge.

Then, he turned his head, and their eyes met. Neither spoke. For a moment Bard thought he’d forgotten how to breathe, until he saw the ghost of a smile on Thranduil’s lips. He couldn’t help but return it.

It felt good, to see a familiar face after so long.

Bard walked to Thranduil in silence. He hadn’t changed since the last time, as Bard should have expected; time truly didn’t have any hold on him. He sat by his side like he had so many years ago, took off his boots, and stared into the water.

The lake hadn’t changed, either.

“It has been long, since your last visit,” Thranduil said, and his voice was exactly as Bard remembered it.

“Why, did you miss me?” Bard replied, and he cracked a faint smile, though he didn’t look up from the surface and the small fish swimming around his feet.

He glanced to Thranduil, but Thranduil said nothing, and his eyes neither.

“Wait, let me guess—” He pretended to be thinking hard, before saying, “There’s something different about me, but this time you won’t make me believe it isn’t the aging.”

“What happened?” Thranduil asked instead.

Bard shrugged. “Many things,” he said. “I got married. I’ve got wonderful kids.” Bard smiled at the thought of them, back home. “Everything else matters little to me.”

Thranduil tilted his head slightly to the side; Bard felt he could be read as easily as an open book. “She’s gone,” Thranduil said.

“Long ago.” Bard’s smile turned sadder, but still, it stayed. 

“So you’re not here because of it.” Right as Thranduil spoke these words, he squinted, before something passed in his eyes, and he said, “Oh, I see.”

Bard nodded. “I couldn’t come, until now.” He breathed in, breathed out. “I haven’t had time for myself in years. Sigrid threw me out.”

Laughing quietly—and if this didn’t make Bard feel blessed—Thranduil lay on his side, and started braiding his own hair. In the sunlight, his scars almost seemed to blend with his skin.

“Tell me about them,” he said. 

Bard didn’t need to be asked twice.

“There’s Sigrid, who’s fifteen, Bain, who’s ten, and Tilda, who’s four,” he said. “They—”

He had so much to say. 

Bard felt like they were longtime friends catching up after some time apart, and wished Thranduil would have much to tell him as well; but when he asked, Thranduil said he hadn’t spent all these years any differently than before.

“I want to be for them the father I never had,” Bard said, when they had both fallen into silence, and he didn’t know how to feel as the words left his mouth. He had never told this to anyone but his wife—because they couldn’t understand. But Thranduil could.

“I have no doubt you are,” Thranduil said, and there was so much conviction in his words that Bard wasn’t sure how to take it. But he smiled, his hand going through his hair.

“I missed coming here more than I’d thought,” Bard murmured.

From the corner of his eyes he caught Thranduil opening his mouth, only to close it again as though he’d changed his mind on what to say. 

“You always used to ask me to teach you,” Thranduil told him. “Why don’t you, now?”

Bard laughed quietly. “I grew up,” he said. “I know what your answer will be.”

“Do you?”

Lying down on his back, with his legs now underwater, Bard looked up to Thranduil and stared.

“I’m still good old me,” Bard said. “I thought only heroes could be taught.”

Thranduil nodded. “These were the rules. But the last time, when I taught you without meaning to, it was—” Thranduil paused, breathing in just a little deeper. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“Mmh.” Bard smiled as he put his arms behind his head. “So you’re the one asking, this time.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. “You could say I am,” he said, reluctantly. 

Bard’s smile grew only wider. “I’d like that, then.” 

Much to Bard’s delight, Thranduil returned his smile, though it was a bit more reserved. 

“But I must be home before sundown,” Bard added, looking up to the sky; it was blue, and the sun was still high.

“Of course,” Thranduil said, and then he asked what Bard wanted them to talk about. 

Bard spent the next hours listening to Thranduil, asking him questions that Thranduil was glad to answer, and sometimes he would tell anecdotes about his life so that Thranduil would listen in return.

He’d never been much one to talk about himself, but when he felt his experience could add to the conversation, it was easier than he’d ever thought it could be.

“Would you mind,” Bard said, later, as the sun set down and let the moon take its place, “if I came here from time to time?”

“I wouldn’t.”

Bard inclined his head in thanks, before holding up his hand to shake. 

“Besides,” Thranduil said, as he looked down to Bard’s hand, and eventually shook it as though he was a bit rusty, “I still have much more to tell you about.”

And when Bard went back to his children that night, he had much to tell them, too. 

Bard made good use of his request; he came back once a week, and if there was a routine he could get used to, to make him want to get out of bed and into the cold, it was this one. 

Thranduil didn’t always teach him what he knew of the world, and when Bard asked if he would ever be taught swordfighting, Thranduil refused, saying Bard was skillful enough with a bow to make his way through a time that wouldn’t see wars. 

Bard asked him how he knew that, for he had never shown his skills, but Thranduil didn’t answer. 

Most of the time Bard enjoyed Thranduil’s quiet company. Talking of his children was something that pleased them both, and Bard couldn’t be happier when words about Thranduil’s own family slipped through his mouth despite himself. 

What Bard loved most, though, was sitting by the lake, back against Thranduil’s flank, and reading to him stories from books he’d never heard of before. Towards the end of the day Bard fell asleep there more often than not, but always Thranduil woke him up gently when it was time for him to go home. 

Listening to Thranduil speak of the stars was something else entirely, and he quickly came to hope he would be able to come at night, but Bard couldn’t bring himself to leave his children alone in the dark. But then, one day, stepping into the clearing was like walking into another world; the sky had been alight with stars.

Over the years that followed Bard came to call Thranduil a friend, and he never forgot the day Thranduil called him as such in turn.

There was little they kept from each other, but with his long years Bard couldn’t blame Thranduil to keep his secrets. Some things were better left in the past, but they shared everything that belonged to the present. Thranduil was a good companion, and Bard liked to think Thranduil thought the same of him.

“I’d like to see your home,” Bard said one day. He looked up to meet Thranduil’s eyes, who lay somewhat of a curious gaze on him, like he had when Bard was but a child.

“My home?” Thranduil cocked his head. “You’ve seen my home; it is under the trees of this forest and the stars above, and upon the grass under my hooves. You’ve walked through my home many times, and I do not wish for any other.”

“Of course,” Bard said, and he smiled. It wasn’t what he’d meant, but it was a good answer, one he would do with. “I could live here as well, if winter wasn’t so cold.”

“Don’t you like it where you live?”

“I do.” His eyes shifted in the general direction of the village, far from here. “But I long for someplace quieter, where my children would be happy as much as I’d be. I think we all need somewhere we can let go of the past,” he explained. “But I apologize, that is not what I meant—I meant the place you used to call home.”

There was a fleeting touch on his shoulder, and he faced Thranduil again; Thranduil looked down at him in all his glory, but his eyes were softer.

“Home has always been where my heart was,” Thranduil said, quietly. “It’s been in many places that I learned to love and make my own.” He paused to push a lock of hair behind his ear, seemed to hesitate before speaking up again, and that made Bard almost hold his breath. “But where I met Lhaewel, my wife, was special. I wish you could have seen it.”

“Tell me about them,” Bard inquired.

“Words don’t do them justice.”

“You can always try.”

Thranduil glared at him, but eventually he invited Bard to sit against him, talked briefly but honestly of that time long gone, and Bard couldn’t get enough of his words. He felt honoured beyond measure that Thranduil had decided to share a part of his own story with him, even for as short a time as this one—he hadn’t thought Thranduil ever would, but he had. 

Perhaps because Bard understood such loss.

“What happened to her?” Bard asked, softly, when Thranduil was done.

Thranduil made a vague gesture of his hand. “She went to war like many others, and was lost to it,” he said. “I thought I would never find home again, and I put all my energy into teaching my students, one at a time. I thought it was all that mattered.” He smiled then, shaking his head. “But I was wrong.”

“You’ve made a home here.”

“That I have,” Thranduil murmured, almost to himself. “With your help.”

Bard laughed at that, shaking his head and rubbing his neck. He stopped when he saw the look on Thranduil’s face. 

“I’m serious,” Thranduil said, flatly. “What’s so funny?”

Bard brought his knees to his chest, lay his head against Thranduil’s side. It wasn’t funny, of course. 

“The lake brought you here,” Bard said. “I was just some lost kid passing by every few years.”

“A kid who, selfishly, I hoped would find his way back,” Thranduil replied. “You should have a better opinion of yourself, Bard.”

Bard shrugged. “I just wanted to forget—and to help.”

The silence was one of understanding after that. Bard thought much, and by the end of the day he believed he understood what Thranduil had meant; Bard thought his meetings with Thranduil had helped him find the peace promised by the lake, but Bard had never considered he might have been of the same help to Thranduil. 

Bard had only hoped so, back then. 

It was good to know things had been mutual, and that they still were, today being another proof of it, and he came home to his children with a heart well filled.

There came a day when, at last, Bard offered to bring Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda with him. They were dying to meet their Da’s friend, and Thranduil seemed almost pleased at the prospect of meeting the children.

But it was nothing, really, compared to the kids’ enthusiasm when Bard told them the news.

Tilda could barely stay in place. Bard thought she would run out the door and try to find Thranduil on her own, no matter how dark it was outside.

Bain and Sigrid were calmer, but Bain spent the whole evening sketching centaurs, and both Sigrid and Tilda asked him questions about Thranduil when he entered the room they shared to wish them goodnight.

“Is he nice?” was their first question.

“Yes,” he said.

“What does he look like?” Tilda asked.

“I’ve already told you what he looks like, darling,” Bard said, booping her nose.

“We know, but we love when you tell us!” Sigrid protested. “Please, da.”

Bard shook his head, laughed a little. “Alright, alright,” he said. “He’s very tall, taller than your old da, but he is gracious. His lower body is one of a stag. He’s got the longest of hair I have seen a man wear—he said he would let you braid it, Tilda—and it is blond, and his eyes are pale blue. He’s got scars, but you don’t have to worry, he’s alright. And he’s beautiful—he’s the most beautiful person you will ever see.”

Sigrid smiled her private smile. “You speak of him like you speak of mum,” she murmured, and Tilda nodded, grinning.

Bard found it hard not to as well. 

More questions were sent his way, which he answered gladly, and when he could see they fought to stay awake Bard smiled. He left a kiss on their foreheads, and wished them goodnight before leaving the room. 

He went to Bain’s room to wish him the same, but his boy was already asleep, and so he merely sat by his side, putting paper and pencils away. He lay a fond gaze on his son, who was hugging close his old teddy bear. Bain looked peaceful, if there was one thing Bard was relieved about, it was that they were happy despite how little they had.

When Bard wasn’t spending his day with Thranduil, he made sure his children had everything they needed, and he worked hard for this.

And his children were right, of course; he did feel for Thranduil in similar ways that he’d felt for Mira, though in no way did he want to acknowledge it to anyone but himself—for now, at least. 

Bard felt like the night passed in a blur. One moment he was sitting on Bain’s bed, the other he was in his own, ready to get up, make breakfast, wake up his children, and take them on this adventure. 

Bard carried Tilda in his arms the whole way (she was still only seven, the age he’d been when he himself had first met Thranduil), and Sigrid held Bain’s hand. They looked much less excited than they’d been the night before, but Bard knew their excitement had far from faded.

All nervousness had disappeared though, the second they saw the lake.

But it was nothing, compared to the way they reacted upon seeing Thranduil for the first time.

It was nothing, compared to the way Thranduil looked at them. 

Perhaps it was nothing as well, compared to the way it made Bard feel. 

He couldn’t quite explain it but—he knew it wouldn’t be the last time he brought the children with him. 

If Sigrid and Bain took an immediate liking to Thranduil, then Tilda was particularly enthusiastic. Once introductions were made, she asked twice the amount of questions her siblings did, and she was also much bolder.

“Da,” she said when, at last, she seemed to have run out of questions, “you said Thranduil would let me braid his hair, but he’s too tall.” 

Bard laughed as he picked her up. She pouted, and Bard sent Thranduil a look that was answered with a nod. 

Bard tucked a lock of hair behind her ear before taking off her shoes, and he said, “That’s true, darling, here we go.”

He gently placed her on Thranduil’s back, making sure she didn’t stand in the middle of it and kept her feet spread. She could barely stop giggling, and assured him she would be careful not to put pressure on Thranduil’s ‘boo-boos’.

As Tilda braided his hair with great care, a grin plastered on her face, Thranduil proceeded to entertain Sigrid and Bain from where he lay by the lake. Bard sat by his side, as to keep an eye on Tilda. 

Thranduil seemed to take great pleasure in telling the kids his take on his first meetings with Bard, and they were fascinated to hear about their father when he was their age.

Sometimes they would cut Thranduil, wide eyed, to ask Bard whether it was true, and he would answer, “yes, it is,” and get lost in those memories, which he remembered with surprising clarity. 

Eventually, Tilda was done making a mess of Thranduil’s hair, and she sat there, on his back, looking proud and content. Bard unpacked lunch, and once their stomachs were filled all three of the children found something to do while Bard made casual conversation with Thranduil. 

Bard watched as his children played in the water, spraying it towards Thranduil, laughing, and Bard couldn’t help but grin at the sight. 

Never had he seen Thranduil look so gleeful, either.

He didn’t know why it had taken him three years to make this day happen—he guessed he’d been scared. Of what, exactly, he didn’t know, but he had, and he was glad today had gotten rid of that fear. 

He thought it was a sight he wished to see, a day he wished to live for as long as the gods would allow it—for the rest of his life, if he could. 

But they couldn’t stop the sun from setting and the moon from rising, and Bard’s announcement of their departure made frowns form on the children’s faces.

“You were right, Da,” Bain piped up, as they prepared to leave. “He really is beautiful.”

Though Bard thought his face was burning, he didn’t back down, didn’t try to hide. He just said, “I know, son,” and picked up a yawning Tilda in his arms. 

They said their goodbyes, promising they would come back, and thanking the gods for letting them play by this lake they weren’t even supposed to see.

Over the next months, Bard often wondered why he kept finding the lake, when his life was getting better with each passing day. But he didn’t ask, and didn’t bring up the subject for a very long time; it was silly, of course, but he was afraid losing the lake meant losing Thranduil, too, in some way.

He didn’t want to even imagine such a day ever coming—Bard loved him too much for that. 

By the gods, did Bard love him.

He didn’t know when his feelings had started to grow and turn into this, but they had, and the warmth Thranduil provoked in his chest was something he was so used to by now that he refused to ever consider being parted from it—from him. 

He didn’t care about what they were, Bard just knew he loved Thranduil, and that he was afraid of losing him, too.

“Something troubles you,” Thranduil told him one day, stopping right in the middle of one of his stories about the ancient times. It was funny, how his voice had grown softer over time. It was so different than he remembered, back when he was just a teenager. It had been soft then, too, sometimes, when he had been a boy, but it had been the softness adults use when talking to children. It wasn’t the same, now.

Bard nodded. He would not lie; couldn’t.

“I am,” he said. “There’s something I wonder.”

“Speak it.”

Bard glanced at him. Thranduil looked worried. Bard didn’t like that look on his face.

“If the lake disappears,” Bard said, “if I can’t find it anymore, someday.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. “Would it mean you would disappear, too?”

There was movement by his side; one of a large body turning without standing, and now that Thranduil had moved the sun fell on Bard’s face. Bard shifted as well, they were now face to face, and it seemed it was what Thranduil had been waiting for. 

“Bard,” Thranduil said. “You know I live here.”

“Yes,” Bard replied. “But only because of the lake.”

“Bard, listen.” Thranduil’s voice was harder, now. “Look at me.”

Bard did. He almost hadn’t noticed he’d looked down, and it wasn’t like him. 

“I would not,” Thranduil murmured. “I would not leave. And the lake? It will never disappear.”

Bard blinked. “How could you know?”

“Don’t you see?” Thranduil said, and a short laugh escaped him. “I stay here, because of you. Because of you, and your children.”

“We found the lake because we needed peace,” Thranduil continued. “You found it in my company, and so you kept coming. And I? I found it in you. I stay, because I know you will always find me here.”

Bard stood then, shaking his head and biting the inside of his cheek. Thranduil’s words resonated with him more than he’d thought, spoken aloud as they were. He was torn between smiling, and perhaps crying a little, too.

“I’ve felt it for years now, you know,” Thranduil said, voice low. Bard could easily picture the look on Thranduil’s face. “That I am aging.”

Bard found nothing to say, but his eyes widened—he’d been so long, that he had forgotten the reason why Thranduil could live forever, without ever changing. 

It hit him, now, that by growing closer to him, Thranduil had allowed himself the possibility of growing old, at the same time Bard did—be it as the close friends they were, or more, as he was starting to understand. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve it. He thought perhaps he had to thank the gods, but it wasn’t the gods who had made him love Thranduil.

It wasn’t the gods who had made Thranduil love him back.

The gods had just given them the place to make it happen, if they were willing to. Perhaps even they’d been surprised. Perhaps they had seen none of this coming. 

Bard laughed at the thought.

He hadn’t seen this coming, either.

“Bard?”

At last Bard turned around. Thranduil hadn’t moved from his spot, but he was holding himself straight and his brows were furrowed, his eyes fixed on Bard. The surface of the lake reflected him, bathing his copy in bright sunlight. 

Even the lake had been nothing more than their theatre, in the end.

There was a vulnerability to Thranduil’s eyes, one that Bard had never seen before, and so Bard did the only thing he could think of.

He got close to him, put his hands on Thranduil’s shoulders, gentle upon the scars there. Don’t stand, please, it said.

Bard looked at Thranduil, and Thranduil looked at him, and no words were exchanged. 

Then, Bard bent down, framed Thranduil’s face between his palms so that their eyes could meet, and then—without putting any more thought into it, Bard kissed him.

And—just like this, Thranduil welcomed his kiss without any hesitation, making it one they shared, and the both of them were smiling.

Behind them the lake lost of its shine—only to welcome the light of the stars all the brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to my amazing friend and beta [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13) for their incredible work and support! <3
> 
> Thank you for reading, please please let me know if you enjoyed it? :D All comments will be cherished!!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://barduil.tumblr.com)!


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